The Music Plays
by TheMusicManiac
Summary: Arthur Kirkland is one of the best conductors out there, and tonight he's directing his favourite pieces.


Author's Notes: This is a little dream of mine :3 It's something I didn't find when I scoured the fan fiction world to give me Composer England, so I wrote it myself. I might turn this into a full-on fanfic, but we'll see. It might tie into someting I've been working on for England anyway, a full fanfic with some OC action too. But reviews would be nice, so please do so! And please actually try to write something helpful instead of like a smiley face and no words or something. I've actually gotten a review like that...

Anyway, have a merry Christmas and a happy New Year! Read and review por favor!

There was a hush that came over the hall as Arthur Kirkland stepped up to the podium. Allowing himself a small smirk, he took up the baton and tapped it a few times to make sure the players were paying attention. Then he mouthed,

"Make it marvelous,"

With a flourish, he began, directing the orchestra with ease and almost with grace. England loved this piece; he loved all of the parts. From the deep baritone and tuba to the first flutes and clarinets, he loved it all. As it escalated, he could feel the crowd behind him lean forward as if to fast forward themselves into a minute in time to see the piece's resolution. But not so for them, they would have to wait like all the rest of the people in the world when they listened to Kirkland direct.

It had depth, the music, because it had character, and character because the composer made the sections of emotion real. Arthur could almost conduct this in his sleep; they had worked so hard. First came the calm, the sweet and gentle blowing of a wind through a field. This was happiness, and the flutes did most of the work there. Then the anticipation of a storm, and then the rain. The strings played the rain, with a solo from the first violin. The audience clapped vigorously for a short time after the solo. It was a sad rain, and underneath it was the mud and muck, the muddled sound of the horns. After that came the anger, intense but somewhat short-lived, but played wonderfully by the percussion and the trumpets alike. Then at long last, when the pounding of the drums ceased their rhythm, then came the same solo again in the echoing silence, this time played by the deep cello. No other instrument accompanied him, and Arthur directed him with steady, fluid movements. Just when it ended and the audience was clapping, the other deep voices joined in, almost breaking the people's hearts in their lament. At last, the ending melody played with the whole orchestra, ending with a fade out into pianissimo. After a moment with his arms still frozen in their previous motion, Arthur smiled at them all, then brought his arms down and turned to face the audience. Their clapping crashed over him like a wave and he closed his eyes to take it all in for just a moment, and then commanded the players to rise over his shoulder. He pointed out the soloists and they waved. It was a great moment, and he wasn't even done yet. There was one more piece, one more before he and his orchestra and the audience went their own separate ways.

Arthur turned to face the instrumentalists again and they waited in expectation while the clapping died down. This time he did not smile at them. This was truly his favourite piece, he corrected himself. He mouthed different words to them this time:

"Break their hearts."

This began with a lonely first flute, playing probably the saddest melody she had ever done in her career. Flutes usually had a happy, trill-full melody, but Arthur liked this change of pace. So did she. The strings joined her, while all the others rested. For this piece, it was only the higher woodwinds, strings, and a bit of percussion. It flowed like water and throbbed like a heartbeat, and Arthur knew that the audience was crying inside. The string's lament accompanied with a counter melody of the first and second flutes sounded like sobbing to him, and he could feel the music in his heart. This was a perfect performance; he couldn't ask for a better batch of players. He was moved, and HE was just the conductor. Sure, maybe one of the best by other's account, but that didn't mean he was emotionless.

It stopped, ending with a chord, a longing and sighing one. England actually felt a tear slide down his cheek, followed by no others, as he smiled at them and turned to an adoring audience. They clapped and defied the rules of a music hall by cheering and shouting praise, which Arthur was perfectly alright with, and he bid the instrumentalists to rise again for the last time tonight.

Those were his favourite pieces. They were his favourite to hear, to direct, to look at. The older nation was proud, though he looked on at the score again with a mix of sadness and happiness in his emerald eyes.

The first piece of music was called The War, though none knew it was about the Revolutionary War, which England fought so reluctantly against his little boy, Alfred. The feelings were his and his alone, because he knew that no one else felt them as he did. The second was called London Rain, and in it he felt his loneliness that seemed ever-present. He would never dare to cry in front of anyone, but this song allowed him to cry without tears. Well, maybe just that one that escaped, but that was not intentional. He should be proud, because he wrote them.

Arthur Kirkland, the famous composer and conductor, was just a lonely country with too much time on his hands, but no one in the audience—or his orchestra for that matter- knew that. How could they know? Why would he want them to? This praise was better than sitting alone, watching the rain on his window pane that had inspired the music he wrote.

Anything was better than being alone, even if "anything" meant pretending he wasn't lonely.

End notes: So, if you're interested, while I was writing this one shot I was listening to the 25th anniversary Legend of Zelda Special Orchestra CD :3 I absolutely LOVE the Wind Waker Movement!

Anyway, about the one shot. My favourite way of portraying England is a lonely man, who has his regrets but hides them, and when he tries to compliment people he panics and insults them instead xD He can't figure out how to be nice sometimes, so what comes out is something more familiar which is cold and mean, but he hates himself for that. He is overwhelmingly lonely; that's why it's often rainy in England.


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